Defiance of the Daemonic

[Damnit_Delmar 1031]

Spoiler

 

*None of this is common irp knowledge unless you were there*

Defiance of the Daemonic

“You are no Master Deceiver, nor are you anything more, then a tool” 

---

 

 

 

It began where it had started, in the very depths of that dark and plagued marshlands. Both of its ‘disciples’ had made its way closer and deeper, both entities preparing to hold conversation with such a being. However it was one, the singular, that being of bone that chose to offer that orb of glass. It was he who had given such a creature, a being bound for the flames of damnation, a tool to kill their very enemies. Yet, he knew the truth, it would be a tool not of their own. A weapon to be used against Man and its ilk, a thing that would turn upon them. His body reacted to it, more than his own mind did, his hand reaching out and plucking that dark crystal from the hands of the skeleton. His gaze landed on the older magi as he danced backwards, the words exiting from his marred and hidden maw. Hand raising as he attempted to do the very thing that would lead to his downfall.

 

“I always was great at playing the fool”

 

The orb slammed down, however what occurred next was not as intended, for as it landed against the soft muddy ground. Eyes and mouths began to open and show, a look of hunger showing, as one of those tongues latched around it and forced it into its maw. So did the brand around the Prophet's neck begin to coil and tighten, restraining him limb from limb as he was forced to his knees. The cacophony of laughter from both dead and demonic alike, would ring out as he was forced to hear the whispers. Those mocking his attempt, and those whispering at his failures. Before one voice above the rest, one clear cut message resounded throughout his mind and ears.

 

“Why have you defied me Prophet?”

 

He thought back to such things, to the origins and start of this path of his. He thought firstly to when he had first picked up the branch, in his state of delirium and madness. How such had begun to wane and lessen, and how his psyche had cleared. Perhaps it was a random occurrence, that such had ended. His memories then did shift to the first time he had been ordained, when he had viewed the very depths of the Heith-Hedran. His mind scoured endlessly through the memories, searching and digging, for some kind of answer. Before it clearly began to form in his mind, the truth of the encounter, the reasoning for his betrayal against this entity. A noise escaped his helm, a noise that only began to rise as it followed in tandem with the cackle of the cadavers. This noise only began to boom, louder and louder, before the manic laughing rose to a crescendo. His voice, warped in its own eldritch tone, rang out in truth to that old and eldritch thing.

 

“Because you are Afraid. Iblees. Because no matter what you do, you will not be SAFE!”

 

Fear. It was something he had learned, something he had controlled, and something he knew all too well. While others aim to rid themselves of it, the Prophet, the King, the Adunian. He knew it all too well, he had been all too familiar with it, and he had made his own Fear his weapon. While Templar aimed to rid themselves of such, Shamans aimed to suppress it, and Paladins aimed to triumph over it. That very fear had become a part of him, and it had guided him to this point. Yet when he looked at that gigantic old thing, despite that face of steel and alchemical make, there was one thing behind his eyes.

 

Defiance

 

He looked at that old thing, that mocked and chastised him, that made an insult to the very path he tread. Yet, he did not listen, he did not care, for in this very moment he defied the very thing that had claimed to give origin to them all. He defied the very thing that had taken hold of his soul, that had rooted itself into the material. Pain began to wrack across his form, as he felt something get ripped out, something stolen from him as he was forced to the darkness of his own mind. Memories flashed past his eyes, projections of all that he had done, from when he was a boy of no older than eight summers. Witnessing the dragon fire scour the white bricks and stones of that elven city. Images of when he was ten summers old, when that arrow had pierced the skull and visor of that man. It soared forward, he was sixteen now, and had become that warrior of the north and cold. His twenties, and soon, thirties. Merging into a playback of his life and past, from ruling that old lordship, to the end of such. His time in the occult, to his time as Prophet, it all blended until he was within this singular moment. Something he knew, would not only be a turning point within his own history, but would also be the turning point of many individuals.

 

“You shall be nothing more, then a Husk of yourself”

 

Those final words were all that was left, as he felt his body get lifted by someone, his frame dragged and carried to that old and derelict town. For now, he was no longer a Prophet, yet he was someone else or rather. He had become something else, a unique abomination of this world, one whose own soulless flame had begun to spark and grow.

Spoiler

This is certainly not the route I expected to go down, but I am interested to see how it progresses and how Aurelion will grow from such a thing. For those worried, don't be, Aurelion is not dead. . .yet. However a lot of things have changed for the character as a whole. 

 

[Lord_of_losers 955]

thanks get metagamed

[Xergarok 297]

A young ranger would be minding his own education, unaware of these new developments. Would he learn? Hard to tell...